.: TWENTY-NINE:.

...

When the final rays of daylight retreated and gave way to dusk, Vlad appeared on the square. Once the sun had slipped beneath the horizon, the light began to fade quickly – the hazy, golden puddles of sunset over the cobbles and on the rooftops almost instantly evaporating into shadow.

He'd promised Irina that he'd stay away – that he'd allow her plan to play out to completion and that he'd allow her to protect his identity – but when his blue eyes had opened to the stone ceiling of Poenari's undercroft, a sense of dread that he'd rarely experienced in his lengthy afterlife crawled over him like coffin flies.

He'd raced to the top of the tower and gazed over the twilight-touched landscape – from the snow-capped lower Carpathians to the north, over the piqué quilt of pine forests to the rooftops of Hermannstadt to the west. When he breathed in the cool evening air, he breathed in the familiar smell of Poenari – of the dust and the fire-damaged beams sunk into the snow, and the faint lingering perfume of everything that it had once been before – and when he cast the net out further, he could smell the road below and the waking forests lining it. He could smell wolves on the prowl and weeds floating in the lake, and two hounds snoozing in his bed – but no Irina.

After plonking down a golden serving bowl full of icy lake water for them to drink, he'd insisted that they sleep on the floor – on an old bear skin rug that he'd pulled out of storage for them – but as soon as one defied his orders and leapt up into the bed, the other one had followed. They'd slept like stones beside him – two very warm, very heavy stones – and surprisingly, he hadn't hated it. He'd found that the scent of their mistress clung pleasantly to their fur.

Irina. He left immediately, and as soon as he'd stepped onto the square, he could smell her. That heady perfume of rosewater and tobacco. And blood. Panic seized him as he followed a strengthening trail of it from the Governor's Palace all the way to the doors of the Jesuit Church on the other side of the square – where he stopped and waited, listening to the mumbled chatter coming from inside.

"…You know, I was hoping you would show up," a woman purred from behind.

Vlad turned towards the owner of the voice; towards a woman dressed in an elegant pink, satin gown, with more precious stones dangling from her ears and neck than a crystal chandelier, and a tri-corn hat perched neatly on top of a cloud of pinned blonde curls. She was flanked by two men – two guards who were wrapped in furs and resembled bears in height and brawn.

The woman marvelled at him – her blue eyes wide. "…It is you," she gasped, holding a gloved hand to her lips as her gaze strolled his body from brow to boots. She raised an eyebrow, "Your style's altered slightly, I admit. To be expected, I suppose; after all, it has been over a century – but I do miss the pearls – I've always been fond of men who wear their wealth. Your hair's a little longer, perhaps… but no, it is you."

Vlad observed her without emotion as she took a step towards him, swinging her hips playfully.

She stopped in front of him – peering up at him through her lashes. "…Vladislaus Drăculea," she whispered in amazement.

Vlad looked down at her. "…I don't believe I've had the pleasure, my lady."

The woman scoffed and rolled her eyes. "The pleasure? Oh, you have, believe me," she drawled as she turned and walked away. "All the pleasure."

"…Carmelia, I presume," Vlad guessed.

The woman swirled suddenly and grinned – the ruffled hems of her petal-pink skirts rustling against the cobbles. "Oh, so you do remember me!"

Vlad was confused. "Only what I've been told about you by others, I'm afraid."

Carmelia's sunny expression suddenly became thunderous. "Then I'll have to remind you," she snarled through her fangs, snapping her gloved fingers at the men beside her.

They surged towards Vlad with silver chains, but in an instant, he'd moved and flanked them – gripping them both by the neck and bringing their heads together with an audible crunch. One of the men slumped to the cobbled ground and didn't get back up, while the other simply staggered backwards in a daze – the silver chain swinging in his closed fist.

When the guard regained his senses and stumbled forward a second time, Vlad was ready and stepped aside at the last moment; a quick shove was all it took to send the man tumbling headfirst to the floor. He growled as he stepped over him – kicking away the chains with the toe of his boot before he reached down and grabbed the guard's throat – raising him up by the neck.

Carmelia tutted and rolled her eyes, and whilst Vlad's back was turned she scooped up the discarded silver chains in her gloved hand and easily looped them tightly around his bare neck. "I can see I'll have to remind you of your manners too," she said, dragging them back.

Vlad dropped the guard. He roared as the silver burned into his throat – his skin sizzling like meat on a griddle.

Carmelia gripped the chains like a leash, pulling Vlad down to her eye level. "…You know, I've been thinking, Vlad," she whispered, smirking as she watched his skin burn. "It's not every day you cross paths with another vampire – and an old acquaintance at that! We should seize this opportunity and go for a drink–"

Vlad struggled and snarled as Carmelia's gaze drifted off to the side, to the body of one of the guards – sprawled limply across the cobbles.

"–Get reacquainted," she suggested softly. "What do you say? After all, we've so much to catch up on."


Vlad soon found that struggling only made the pain worse. Much worse. It had been a long time since he'd felt the burn of silver, and every twist and tug of his arms and torso only forced the chains binding him to the chair to bite deeper into his flesh. They sunk through the top layer of skin like hot cheese wire – melting it away, cutting bloodied and angry trenches into his flesh more painful than anything he'd ever experienced – even when he was alive.

From the square, he'd been taken into an old building near the fortifications – a red-bricked bastion adorned with medieval weapons and tapestries, including a handful of shields emblazoned with a familiar-looking heraldic wolf. The guard that had been left standing from their confrontation outside the church had dragged him by the chains like a dog into a windowless armoury – the thick stone walls were hung with brown and grey wolf pelts, whilst tall cabinets held a selection of hunting paraphernalia, from bear snares to various crossbow with their accompanying bolts.

Whilst Vlad sat rigid in the chair, his eyes roamed around the room – Irina's description of Prince Lupesci The Hunter fresh in his mind. The Huntress, meanwhile, was feasting on her most recent kill.

"You know, I must say that I'm quite hurt that you don't remember me," Carmelia remarked as she pulled her pink and pillowy lips away from the guard's neck – his warm blood glossing them. She was holding his bulk up against a nearby wall – standing on the tips of her toes to drink from him.

Vlad glared at her. "…I remember being stabbed in the shoulder by a coward in a cloak," he said, wincing as he spoke – chain bobbing uncomfortably against his throat.

Carmelia dropped the guard. She puzzled for a moment, then blinked in surprise, "You mean it was you who came rushing to rescue my little sparrow that night?"

Vlad lifted a dark eyebrow as the guard slumped lifelessly across the floor – sharing the look with the other slightly livelier guard who was standing watch in the doorway.

Carmelia pulled a handkerchief from of her bodice and began dabbing her lips and chin. "My, for all our incredible abilities and heightened senses we're really quite useless at recognising another of our kind, aren't we?" she tutted. "I had no idea it was you! You'll have to forgive me; I tend to become a tad delirious once I've fed."

Crossing paths with another vampire was rare; there were simply too few walking the world – weaving in and out of society and its shadows – and Vlad had could count how many times he'd met another on three fingers. "…We're built to hunt the living–"

Carmelia threw the soiled handkerchief over her shoulder. It landed on the dead guard's chest.

"–Not the dead," Vlad explained – his voice hoarse with pain.

His captor shrugged and then clasped her hands together excitedly, "Such history we share!"

Vlad disagreed, "One meeting in a darkened alleyway… does not a history make."

Carmelia slipped gracefully into the empty chair that had been placed him front of his, neatly smoothing her skirts. She rested her head in her hands, tapping her fingers against her rouged cheeks, "Speaking of which, you have to tell me what she tastes like. From one predator to another, I'd just love to know," she purred. "That was a meal I was very much looking forward to, I have to say."

Vlad struggled – snarling as he felt the silver burn his skin with an audible sizzle.

Carmelia tutted. "Don't like to bite and brag?" she teased, pouting. "Each to their own. I'm sure Prince Lupesci will allow me a sip of that vintage at some point."

"Over my undead body," Vlad growled, as he caught a whiff of the smell of his own skin burning away.

Carmelia leaned back in her chair. She waved a hand, "Yes, well – we'll get to that. But for the moment, we're discussing the past, not the future."

Vlad gazed blankly at her.

She blinked her blue eyes in amazement. "…You really don't remember, do you?"

Vlad sneered at her.

"…How extraordinary," she remarked.

"Refresh my memory," he said.

Carmelia leaned forward. "It shouldn't need refreshing," she spat.

Vlad held her gaze like a wild animal trapped in a snare – which wasn't all that far from the reality.

"Iad!" she exclaimed. "You'd think a man would recognise his own daughter – his own flesh and blood!"

Vlad's blue eyes widened. "…Daughter?"

Carmelia fluttered her lashes and nodded. "Mm hm," she replied. "I really had no idea that I had such a famous father!"

"…Impossible," Vlad rasped.

She waved a hand, "Well, I'm not your daughter in the traditional sense, I suppose. But I'm of your blood," she told him. "…You made me. I'm your heir, your progeny, your... little princess."

"…No," Vlad replied, shaking his head – snarling through the pain it caused. He tightened his grip on the arms of the chair, "I've never – I wouldn't."

Carmelia smiled. "Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news but, yes, you did," she replied. "A hundred and forty-nine years and eight months ago… if we're being precise. That's an awful lot of birthdays and name days you've missed, father. But - no matter - I'm not one to hold a grudge."

Vlad stared through the flagstones between them and tried to place himself in time; he landed at the beginning of the seventeenth century. He'd been just shy of his hundred and fiftieth year on earth, and – as he recalled – by all accounts had not been dealing with it very well – in fact he'd been in the midst of a sort of after-life crisis. After more than a hundred years wandering Europe, he'd staggered back to Transylvania drunk on blood and violence, and with his mind on revenge.

"It was Sânziene – the hottest I can remember," Carmelia said. She closed her eyes, "I can still feel the sun on my cheeks and the taste of sweat on my lips… I'd spent the whole day gathering flowers to impress some boy – whose name escapes me – and then I was picked by Prince Bethlen's bride out of all the girls there that night to lead the dance around the fire in the square. Me."

Vlad's breath stuck in his throat as he cast his mind back and saw the echo of flames dancing in his head – and flashes of girls in white petticoats dancing with them – melding together. Recalling those days was like peering into muddy water – as soon as you made out the vague lines and shape of a memory, it was almost instantly washed away.

"When the dancing was over, I didn't want to go home – I didn't want it all to end, you see. I didn't want everything to go back to how it'd been before," Carmelia said – similarly gazing off into the distance. "I hated my father – my stepfather," she corrected with a slight shrug. "And so, I walked – I walked out of the gates and out of Hermannstadt… and do you know what? I don't think I meant to go back."

Vlad narrowed his eyes as he recalled the rushing waters of a river, and the outline of a girl washing her feet in the waters of the weir. "…Fuck," he mouthed.

Carmelia watched his expression shift slowly as he remembered what had happened next. "Is that a flicker of recollection, I see?"

"…But I drained you dry," he said.

Carmelia arched an eyebrow, "Not quite."

"You were dead," he insisted, and then remembered how she'd viciously bitten down on his hand.

"I was abandoned," Carmelia snarled, rising from her seat. "You abandoned me."

Vlad watched as she walked away, strolling over to one of the crossbow cabinets on the other side of the small room. He glanced at the body of the guard, dead on the floor; he felt a deep, curdling dread in the pit of his stomach as he considered all the lives Carmelia had cruelly taken in the century or so that she'd been prowling the shadows. All that blood spilled was on his hands. How could he have been so careless!

Carmelia leaned over the cabinet, smoothing her fingers over the cool glass and peering down through it into the velvet case below. "I was completely alone," she complained, her fingers tracing the ghostly outline of a crossbow - missing from the collection it seemed. "I had no idea of what I was, and even less of an idea of how to be it. I was left to work all that out on my own. Can you even imagine how hard that was for me?"

Vlad hung his head, his dank hair hanging in his eyes. "…I'm sorry," he offered. "I know how painful the transition can be… It's why I chose never to sire any – well, any more of my kind."

Carmelia swirled to face him.

"It must be a choice made," he told her with a heavy heart. "Not a curse inflicted."

She found her way back over to the empty chair – the wooden joints creaking as she lowered herself into it.

Vlad looked at her – and then he asked her the question that he was dreading the answer to. "Did you – have you sired any–?"

Carmelia scoffed. "No."

Vlad almost sighed in relief.

"Why on earth would I do that?" she went on, laughing. "I didn't want to have children when I was alive, why on earth would I want them now that I'm dead? Besides, why would I ever want to share such power? Not when it would only serve to dilute my own."

He frowned at her.

"…Which rather conveniently brings me to you," Carmelia sighed, bringing her hands together as if she were about to pray. She tapped them against her lips, "What am I to do with you, father dear?"

Vlad clenched his fists in his silver bindings.

"As I've said, I don't enjoy sharing and so it certainly wouldn't do to have another set of fangs stealing my fare," she pondered. "No, I'm the farmer here and this is my hen coup. Can't abide a fox sniffing around, you understand."

"I've no appetite for serfs," Vlad sneered. "I only feed on the willing. Nowadays."

Carmelia pulled a face. "Oh. How dull," she drawled. "I'm a little disappointed, honestly – given your history. Although that does solve the question of whether there's enough to go around. Fine."

Vlad narrowed his eyes at her.

Carmelia tapped her fingers against her lips. "Now, Prince Lupesci? Soon to be King Lupesci – he wants you dead," she went on. "Because, you see, he also doesn't like to share – not his kingdom, not his wealth, and definitely not his wife."

Vlad scowled at her suddenly.

"Now, I could kill you," Carmelia went on.

"You could try," Vlad countered.

"I doubt it'd be difficult; there are silver crossbow bolts right over there in fact – and honestly, I'm quite intrigued to find out what exactly happens when a vampire dies – no one ever thought to tell me, you see." She shrugged her lips, "I'm sure I'd be well rewarded for taking out the competition by the new King when he takes his throne - though it would be a tremendous shame to lose you, and just when we're getting reacquainted!"

Vlad watched her deliberate.

Carmelia suddenly smirked at him. "But then you and I both know that Kings come and go – and hostile takeovers are rather risky affairs; all that blood, and dick swinging could be for absolutely nothing in the end," she went on. She grinned, "Or, you and I could make another arrangement. An arrangement that would leave me with everything I've ever wanted for myself, and you with his widow – which is what we both know that you really want."

"…She hasn't married him yet."

Carmelia sent him a sympathetic look. "Oh yes; I'm afraid you turned up at the church a smidge too late," she told him. She shrugged her lips, "Which reminds me, by now I imagine they'll be raising a glass to the happy couple! And I certainly don't want to miss that," she added as she stood up once again. "So, if you'll excuse me, I must be off; we'll have to continue our little family reunion later. But do think about my offer – we'll talk finer details when I return."

Vlad glowered after her as she sauntered off towards the door, scooping up her gloves and cloak along the way. "You may be of my blood, but you're no child of mine," he spat.

Carmelia glanced over her shoulder. "…Are you hungry?" she asked. "I can have a little something brought if you are? I can have them served up in a cup if you like; you wouldn't even have to lift a finger."

Vlad snarled and thrashed in response – hissing when the silver burned into his flesh.

"Don't let him out of your sight," Carmelia warned the guard. She pointed at the corpse of his comrade, "Else that will be you, understand?"

The guard bowed his head. "Yes, Baroness."

"Good," she said, offering a final smirk over her shoulder before she left. "I'll be back after the bedding ceremony," she called cheerfully from the end of the corridor.


After more than an hour bound and burning the chair, Vlad could feel his body beginning to weaken and perspire. Sweat dripped from the hair falling across his forehead and his limbs had begun to feel heavy an ache, while his raw and open wounds oozed with dark blood. When – if – he managed to escape, then he'd need to feed soon. He only hoped that Irina would be safe until he could reach her.

He couldn't believe that she'd actually married the man. Had that all been part of her plan? He could still smell her blood – or at least the memory of it – fresh and clotting over her skin; he wondered what had happened to her and began to worry that something had gone terribly wrong – that her wild and brilliant plan had at best been shunted off course – or at worst, had failed. All that mattered now was getting out and getting as far away from Hermannstadt and Transylvania as possible.

He was distracting himself wondering where they might go once the night was over, when he suddenly detected a sweet and familiar aroma drifting in the air; an aroma that he'd been patiently waiting for – hoping for.

Marzipan.

Vlad's head snapped up. He glanced at the guard standing in the doorway – at the back of his thick neck, red and bruised from where he'd grabbed it before. He could smell his blood pooling beneath the skin – perfumed slightly with the smell of black powder and silver ore. The man's sallow skin and slightly bowed legs were signs of a child raised in darkness – in pits in the mountains around Braşov.

"…So, tell me," Vlad rasped.

The guard barely flinched at the sound of Vlad's voice. He pretended to ignore it.

"…How does a son of the Şcheii end up working for a bozgor?" Vlad asked.

The guard turned his head slightly.

"You're a long way from the pits, prietenul meu," Vlad observed.

"I am not your friend," the guard spat over his shoulder.

Vlad shrugged his lips. "…Perhaps not," he agreed. "…But neither are the Carmitru – and nor is Lupesci. Why throw your lot in with them?"

The guard snorted, "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, don't I? I think your friend over there would agree with me," Vlad added, nodding at the dead body lying across the flagstones between them.

The guard turned away from the door – removing his attention from the corridor to the corpse in front of him. He gulped, "That was youyou did that."

Vlad hesitated – his gaze shifted. "…I gave him a headache," he corrected. "Baroness Carmitru was the one who made things a little more... permanent."

The guard opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly stopped himself. He frowned.

"And I think she made it very clear that you were next, prieten," Vlad added as he noticed a flash of yellow silk – like sunshine – floating behind the guard's large frame.

He smiled as he watched a long pair of pale arms quickly wrap their way around the guard's shoulders – fingers biting into his leathery uniform – whilst a pair of legs locked around his waist. Leonie's soft, dimpled face appeared suddenly in the crook of the guard's neck – bright blue eyes flashing and rouged lips smirking – before she sunk her fangs down into the gristled flesh of his neck and drank.

And drank.

...And drank.

Eventually, when the guard began to totter from side to side – life draining swiftly from his eyes – Leonie let go. She hopped down and watched in surprise as the guard toppled forward like a felled pine – his fall broken by the body of the other guard.

She pulled a face; her chin and nose were painted with blood. "…Did I do it right?"

Vlad raised his eyebrows. "…Well, usually we don't drink the whole human," he told her. "But on this occasion – and since it's your first time – I'm willing to ignore that slight faux pas."

As soon as he'd walked away from the Governor's Palace and from Irina, it had occurred to Vlad that some reinforcements might not be such a bad thing. He'd made a promise to Leonie and had decided that it was time to make good on it. And so, instead of heading straight back to Poenari, he'd made a brief stop at the Capota de Trandafir. She'd been surprised to see him (and had raised a peculiar blonde eyebrow at the two dogs following him like shadows) – but had allowed him in without question. They'd talked for a long time – he'd told her everything – and although he'd hesitated before finally allowing her what she wanted most – his blood – he felt strangely calm about the whole thing.

He'd taken her down into the dark cellar of the brothel – beneath the hat shop that it masqueraded as during the day – and told her to wait for dusk, and then to come and find him immediately.

He'd worry about explaining himself to Irina later.

Leonie grinned suddenly. She licked her lips. "…That tasted… it was like–" she rambled wildly – excitedly – as she searched for the right word. She stretched her arms up into the air and sighed, "It was wonderful."

"Right, well–"

She stared at her hands and then brought them to her cheeks – feeling them flush with warm blood. "…I can feel it," she muttered in wonder. "I feel it under my skin… And it has never felt so smooth!"

Vlad sighed. "Leonie–"

"I never feel so strong! Did you see how I grab him! Him! Such a bear of a man!" she went on, picking up her primrose yellow skirts and skipping over the guard's body with a slight giggle.

Vlad lifted a dark brow; he'd never heard her giggle before. "While I understand that this is all very new and that you're excited–"

Leonie froze and gasped. "I smell another man… more," she mumbled, waltzing around the small room – led by her tiny, turned up nose. She closed her eyes and smiled, "I can smell sweat on their skin… brandy on their lips. I smell you, Conta! Your coat, your beard. As soon as I wake in the cellar, I knew exactly how to find you–"

"Leonie!" Vlad barked.

She turned and blinked at him.

"Will you please stop and help me?" he ordered, motioning to the silver chains binding him to the chair.

Leonie hurried over to him. "Oh! Scuze, Conta!" she replied as she reached out to untangle the silver chains binding one of Vlad's wrists.

"No, don't–!"

When Leonie's bare fingertips brushed up against the silver, she screamed – spitting up her lungs in pain.

Vlad sent her an impatient look. He tutted, "Second lesson," he began, "Never touch silver. Ever. If you touch it, your skin will burn, and if you ingest it – or you happen to be stabbed or shot with silver – then you'll die. Understand?"

Leonie sucked on her fingertips. "Is good that I like gold jewellery," she grumbled, reaching into one of the pockets hidden among her skirts and pulling out a pair of satin gloves.

Vlad sat still as she delicately untangled the silver chains from around his wrists and neck. "You've a lot to learn," he told her, wincing as the chains pulled away – tearing a layer of skin away with them. "And – as promised – I will teach you. But first I have to go and find Irina."

Leonie frowned as she threw the chains to the side and stepped back. "…What I do now?"

Vlad staggered forward. "You are to go immediately to Poenari," he told her as she reached out and caught him.

She brushed a hand over his cheek. "…You are weak, Conta," she realised. "You have to feed–"

Vlad shook his head. "I have to find Irina."

Leonie sent him an uncertain look. "But, Conta–"

Vlad took her face in his hands, "You promised you'd listen to me. That was the deal we made."

"Yes, but–"

"So please do so."

Leonie looked worried.

"You've done beautifully - but now you're in danger," he told her. "Go to Poenari – immediately – and wait for me there. Understand?"

She nodded slowly. "Da."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then moved towards the door. "Behave yourself," he added in warning, before slipping off down the corridor.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: Apologies again for the wait on this one! I promise I'm not going to leave you all high and dry - both the final chapter and epilogue are done and dusted, I just need to get my ass into gear when it comes to posting.

...Okay, I might gone a bit "James Bond under interrogation" over the top with this one. I just couldn't help myself - sorry if it's a bit too... "villain in a cape twirling their mustache". Stay tuned for the big finale in Chapter 30. ;-) Hope you enjoyed Leonie's comeback - I certainly enjoyed writing it.

Thanks so much for reading and following everyone - and to Remember and Scarlet Empress as always for the lovely reviews. And Forbidden Moons - thank you so much for reading and reviewing! x

Historical Notes:

"Bozgor": Derogatory term for a Hungarian.

"Şcheii": A deeply patriotic, Romanian area in Brasov - traditionally a hot bed for revolutionary activity.